


Fly

by Hiver_Noir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Psychopaths In Love, Unhealthy Relationships, clinical terms, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiver_Noir/pseuds/Hiver_Noir
Summary: After all, psychopaths do have feelings.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	Fly

**Author's Note:**

> UNBETAED. Read at your own risk.  
> A very old work.

I watched a change in you  
It's like you never had wings

  
Sherlock is bored. The room smells of dust and there is a fly somewhere inside the dusky depths of his and Watson’s apartment, beating aimlessly against the window glass. He hears how its tiny wings buzz, a sound as exasperating as it is surprisingly loud for such a small body, as he ponders aloofly on how many more hits it would take for an insect to break itself beyond repair.

And «beyond» is such a sweet word on his minds sticky, fork-like tongue. The thought of the devil brings him back to his senses, and Sherlock lifts his head up a bit to gaze at the man, seated in the opposite chair.

I watched a change in you  
It's like you never had wings  
  
Jim speaks to him in a quiet monotone, almost as if he’s quoting a text; every muscle on his face seems to be driven by a mechanism, precise like the mimics of an expensive puppet. Dark eyelashes slide up and down over the glossy sclerae, bringing a lusterless shade to his eyes; Jim resembles a doll with his pale face and a dull, mournful stare, skillfully put together with old porcelain, white cotton wool and a vague memory of an unhappy childhood. The image makes Sherlock restless, he feels an unpleasant tingling sensation in his whole body, some indistinct itch at the tips of his fingers. It gets hard for him to sit still, and it takes a few heartbeats to put these sensations under a thoughtful scrutiny - he is neither hungry, nor tired or physically uncomfortable.

On the contrary, he is possessed by desire.

A desire to put Jim on the floor of this room, to take off his masks, to expose him, to strip him down to the white, smooth, porcelain shape of his bones. Sherlock wants to run his hands under the layers of clothing, to open the juicy flesh with a hungry scalpel and unveil a plexus of nerves, bound to the perfect machine of his cerebrum. He would extract this brain with such gentleness as he would do with a precious fruit, hidden within the solid shell of a skull; he would peal off its veils one by one, all with a fondness, reserved only for the most passionate lovers, - the first, the second and the third - an enchanted number, just like in your fairy tales, Jim, and weight his delicate prize between the palms of his hands, guiding his fingers through the gypsum of the hippocampus - that secret place where memories are stored, including the ones of him. For the first time, Sherlock is truly sorry he had never got a systematic education in the medical field. John could have done it for him, but he’d unable to appreciate it. Not like him, anyway.

Sherlock thinks he might have used another way - like pulling Moriarty out of this chair, pinning his form down against the floor, so that he could crape his real self out with a sharp needle – and he won’t mind cutting off all the redundant, artificial parts; Sherlock wonders just how many minutes it would take him to make Jim scream. 

Sherlock thinks that maybe he should have shared that idea with Jim. 

Yet, once again he finds himself being caught within the trap of something as trivial as this anger, caused by the barren nature of these musings, because he knows - they're not getting him anywhere. He's frozen in his chair like a statue, a monument to boredom, mundane and despicable as ever, while these impossible thoughts flare up and go out like broken wires within his brain. Moriarty slips away from him every single time. 

When Jim leaves, Sherlock examines the chair. The upholstery is still warm, and Sherlock runs an open palm over it’s surface. He caresses the cloth with his fingertips – just as rich with nerves as the neither regions of human body - greedily absorbing the remnants of heat for the lack of anything else. Jim is dense and impermeable, like darkness at the bottom of a deep well; he leaves no trace of his presence, except for the subtle scent of perfume, lingering in the air. Sherlock leans against the back of his chair and inhales this sweet smell - fresh wood, warm sandal, white amber. Sherlock imagines a forest fire, dead whales, strewn with dozens of harpoons - fat and gore, reeking of salt and iron, whole rivers, oceans of blood. He touches himself, swaying on the waves of these thoughts, and habitually feels nothing.

Somewhere in the apartment, a fly starts beating against the glass again.

***

Under the sun Jim's eyes are surprisingly light and empty.

They are circling each other like two beasts, sharing a tiny cell. Sherlock is angry. Jim speaks to him again, but now he feels trickery in his words, a falseness that lies deeper than common logic, reserved for the mindless livestock. Alarm flares up inside his chest and reaches its peak, turning sharp as the needle of a cocaine-loaded syringe. The face of his adversary forces him to remember that last visit: the cup, too hot in his hand, the smell of sandalwood and amber, corroding his lungs, the useless fluttering of an insect, killing itself with a methodic vigor. 

Moriarty's palm is surprisingly warm like he suffers a fever, or maybe it is Sherlock's hands that got way too cold in the wind, but something doesn’t seem right. Jim tugs him in to shake hands, and Sherlock watches his face, reading nonverbal signals instead of honeyed deceive of his words. A clear awareness rises a second before he sees the dull gleam of the gun in the corner of his eye$ the second thing he knows is that it’s not directed at him. 

Sherlock hits Jim on the arm, drawing the weapon away from his mouth, shaped as an "oh", drawled out by surprise or a sudden ache: the movement is too sharp, and his feet get tangled in the floors of his own coat, forcing him to lose his balance and dragging Jim down. Together they fall onr the dusty roof, followed by a sharp crack of a gunshot, and Sherlock reaches out blindly to capture Moriarty's hands and holds him still.

Jim's fingers are still stubbornly squeezed around the trigger, and Sherlock feels a cold, white rage seeping over his eyes like bleach. He grabs the gun and violently hits the hand with a weapon against the concrete, once, twice, thrice. Jim laughs out in pain, but lets go. The gun ends up in Sherlock’s hand, but he throws the weapon away like if it was something obscene, disgusted by the mere touch of it. He's mad at Jim, and this anger is perfectly clear in its purity, burning and scorching. 

You have no right. Your secrets belong to me. 

They look at each other with a challenge. Sherlock tightens his hold on Jim's wrists with such force he must be hurting him, but the latter makes no attempt to break free, which only compels Sherlock to hurt him further. The man looks disoriented, so Sherlock concludes he has probably hit his head during the fall, and a sharp curiosity pierces him through with this thought. He is itching to know if there's any blood within Jim’s dark hair, so he frees one of his hand and reaches out, his palm outlining the circumference of Jim’s skull, smooth and silky under the touch. Sherlock’s fingers are completely dry, earning him a stab of disappointment. In turn, Moriarty offers him an unreadable gaze as his freed hand climbs under Sherlock’s coat, open and defenseless as it counts the ribs. He places it right in between the fourth and fifth of them, precisely over his heart.

The intimacy of this gesture seems almost indecent, and Sherlock curves his lips in a cold, condescending smile - what do you hope to achieve, there's nothing that can burn, - but stops himself before anything can fall off his tongue, because Jim's gaze smears him, pulsating with darkness - black as oil – it would take only a spark for a blaze to consume them both. And Sherlock stills, not daring tuo move an inch, unable break away from the sight.

Slowly, Jim's free hand slides down along their bodies, and Sherlock intercepts his wrist almost at the very thigh. Of course – there is a knife inside his pants pocket, small and deadly in the hands of the ones who know where the pulse line surfaces the skin. Jim smiles serenely, I owe you one, a smile flowing down his face like poison, and Sherlock feels his own lips stretch in response – they are the two mirrors, placed one against the other, doomed to repeat every movement until they break in a rain of shards. He slides his fingers along the other’s wrist, pressing the sensitive pads against the styloid process. There is a rhythm, hammering into his skin with the cold precision of a metronome, just like his own. The joy of recognition, originating somewhere within his solar plexus, envelops him in a soft, vibrating shroud.

You're me. 

And Sherlock likes to see Jim just like this, dazed and placed underneath him - for he's sure the man likes it like this, too, or otherwise, he wouldn't allow that to happen. Sherlock leans against his face, propping his weight on his forearm, and talks in a firm, little ear.

\- If you want me to jump, I'll do it. But you’ve never said I have to go down alone. I think I should take you with me.

Sherlock brings Moriarty's hands over his head, keeping his wrists in place and holding them together. 

\- You said I could do anything to you. So...

\- It won’t break the rules.

\- But then you’ll lose, Sherlock. Why don't you want to die? - Moriarty's voice pours into his ears like thick honey, enveloping his throat with deceptive softness, - it’s too sweet, but Sherlock does not seem to mind, as long as every other part of Jim is like mercury.

Fluid, volatile, deadly.

This thought alone makes his throat dry and hot.

\- Are you afraid you won't be able to solve the riddles if you’ll die?

\- If my life becomes a price to rid society from the likes of you, - Sherlock gives him a faint, icy grin, - then I'm ready to fall.

He does not say anything that should have remained unspoken.

Because you can't live without me.

Jim gazes up at him with wide-eyed, almost childish delight, and Sherlock likes that too - he wants Jim to always look at him that way, seeing his darkness and admiring it as his own. And Jim whispers to him, rolling the syllables on his tongue, like bright, cold marbles:

\- But being dead is so boring, Sherlock.

\- Then we can think of something else.

Nothing happens for a few seconds. Sherlock's arm goes numb, and he lowers his head, resting his forehead on Jim's shoulder. Time flows past them, above them, thin and transparent like a slide of glass, containing them both within. Sherlock counts the seconds with the beats of pulse under his fingers, not knowing anymore, whether it belongs to him, or the adversary he has trapped with his body. All thet he is aware of is how it escalates under his touch – only for some mere seconds, but it’s enough. 

Sherlock can feel Moriarty's chest heaving under his weight, and he lifts himself up on his forearms, allowing his breath to flow freely. Time is split, caught between the beats of their pulse. The whole world stills in anticipation, waiting for the fall - and Sherlock isn't afraid, but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want a bullet to pierce John's naive heart, doesn't want a bloody halo to frame Mrs. Hudson's absurd head, doesn't want stacks of morning newspapers, crowned with Lestrade's obituary. And he knows he has a way out, a loophole he has prepared for himself with his usual thoroughness. But…

He doesn't want the mechanism inside Jim to stop.

Sherlock doesn't want to die.

As if in response to that thought, something inside Moriarty sets in motion. His fingers slide along the hollow of Sherlock’ neck, moving over his head to tap at his temple lightly, the touch ghostly and weightless like a blow of breeze in his hair, warm and gentle.  
There’s a rustle over Sherlock ear, a sigh, followed by a subtle chuckle.

\- This time you’re it.


End file.
